dear body,

what is this mismatched mosaic
that you are in the mirror -
this fumbling jumble of flaws,
this frightening medley of faults -
this glitch,
this error,
this defect -

and what is this misplaced magic
that you are to all eyes but mine -
this unrecognized spectator road,
this coveted gift of commonplace -
this ordinary,
this regular,
this neutral -

what are you
when pictured with impartial perspective -
what are you
when glimpsed with glossed-over grace -
what are you
when there is nothing being done to you
besides being noticed?

these thoughts want you dead.

fight them.

my best friend's mother held me so tight
that i wondered how close i could get
to letting myself feel like a daughter

body,
i am so
so
so
sorry

i'm better,
i swear.
i'm better.
because that's all that makes sense to you.
i have to be better
if all the weight that i put myself through hell to lose
is slipping back onto me so quickly.
this is what recovery is supposed to look like,
isn't it?
eating.
gaining weight.
but what is recovery supposed to feel like?
because i can't stop myself from stepping on the scale,
and every time i do,
i want to cry.
(but it's safer to sob myself to sleep at night.)
i can't stop myself from checking every label
and counting every calorie
and exercising out of hatred.
i can't stop myself from taking every tiny ounce of opportunity
for control that i get.
but i'm still eating.
i still gained weight.
that weight that seems to crush my shoulders
and haunt my lungs
more than it ever felt on my body,
because i've always seen myself as heavy.
my body has only ever been associated
with danger
destruction
and a distraction.
my body has only ever been something
to be taken advantage of
and guarded
and feel ashamed for
and commented on
and covered
and cut.
my body has only ever been my enemy.
and i'm not sorry.
i'm effing devastated.

i can hardly believe how much this is consuming me

i don't have to control it.
i don't have to think about it.
my body helps me live my life,
and its relationship with gravity
is the least interesting thing about me.